A bit like growing
by Crazyrebelscarfs
Summary: He fights and he grows and maybe someday he'll be happy. Or: a series of oneshots that take place in the wonderful world of Soul Eater.


It's like this:

He's seven years old and a little bit lost. He's too impatient to play flute like his father, his voice is to unbalanced for him to sing like his mother, and he doesn't have the finesse to play violin like his brother.

(He eventually finds comfort in the simple black-and-white piano keys and the notes that can be both persistent and quiet or loud and broken).

He's nine years old and a disappointment. His music doesn't tell stories of hope and healing like his brother's, but instead of darkness creeping in and of fighting and hurting and breaking. They tell him his mind is too dark for a beautiful instrument like the piano.

(He tells them - defiantly - that they don't understand. It's not his mind that is dark, but his soul, because that is where the music stems from).

He's ten years old and his arms turn into blades when he's upset. His mother tells him that it's genetic and that he _has to_ learn to control it. Wes ruffles his hair and compares it to learning to press the keys of his piano. His father says nothing.

(He pretends he doesn't see the nervous looks they give him, and think for the first time that he can understand why people are afraid of his music).

He's twelve and a delinquent. He's "accidentally" cut through clothes and cars and furniture on several occasions. Whatever. The fur jacket was ugly, the car was noisy and the sofa stank.

(His mother had barely spoken to him for a month, the owner had spent all evening making snide comments about his abilities and _"wow isn't your brother fantastic"_).

He's thirteen and he packs a few measly belongings and runs away from him. It's cool. Shibusen is filled to the brim with people who, like he, can turn into weapons, or learn to control them, and he thinks he will fit in. The prospect of fighting and being hurt does not scare him.

(But what if no one wants him, what if he _can't _learn to control his transformations, what if he becomes an outcast, Meister-less, alone).

He's fourteen and he has a great Meister and a noble purpose. He's getting to know the possibilities of his genetics and he thinks he can be great. His Meister is a flat-chested nerd with no musical understanding, but she's smarter than anyone else he knows and brave and driven and passionate and a little bit lost.

(He thinks they're a lot alike).

He's fifteen and the world is chaos. Darkness is creeping through the cracks of every home and every mind. They're desperately trying to defeat the kishin, desperately trying to keep up with the madness, and desperately trying to keep each other alive.

(He's so, _so_ scared that something will happen to his beautiful, impulsive, _dumbass _meister, because, oh god, who would he be without her).

(They don't die, they _win, _and he is relieved).

He's sixteen and his life is great. He's the last death scythe, famous for the Battle of the Moon, admired and appreciated for his skills, his determination and his ability. He thinks this is the height of his life, and he feels _happy_.

(People are asking why he doesn't have a girlfriend and he never answers because _that is not a part of his mind he is willing to explore yet_).

He's seventeen and head over heels in love. It's ridiculous, and he knows it. It's also appallingly obvious to everyone but the subject of his affections, and he doesn't know whether he should praise himself lucky for that, or curse whatever powers that be for making his Meister so _fucking stupidly oblivious_.

(He's so in love with her it hurts him sometimes, but he's not as brave as she is and too aware of the outcome if he tells her how he feels about her. He'd rather be her weapon and her best friend than not be with her at all).

He's nineteen and the world is beautiful. "Cool" is an old teenage phase, "insecure" is saved for rare moments of uncertainty and "single" is something he hasn't been for months. He's in love and he's loved and he's so happy he can't find words that express it.

(He thinks maybe his enjoyment of life is a little bit ridiculous, but if anyone ever calls him out on it they can _fuck off. _He damn well deserves to be where he is and he's not letting anyone take it from him).


End file.
